scoop

        Totem Pole Square offered a "bowling green" and park benches. There was one shade tree, a Douglas fir, stately and proud. Every Sunday Brother Ambrose brought a soapbox and preached his heresy. There was a collection plate, a boombox with New Age cds, and, of course, loaves and fishes.
        On a backstreet off the square stood a gray-shingled office building, occupied by the Totem Pole Ledger. Weekly serving the scattered forest dwellers of Vancouver Island, the newspaper was owned and edited by Artie Hoffman, retired teacher. Folks called him Scoop and he loved it.
        "Hey, Scoop!" The bell wire jangled as Aleister Canterville barged in with burning gossip.
        "Hey, Lester. What's up?"
        "Guess who's fucking!"
        "Me and Margaret Thatcher?"
        "Brother Ambrose and that bare naked Russian hottie. Sonya the Eskimo."
        "Banner news. Thanks. Have a good day."
        "Bye, Scoop."



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          One of Artie's delights was visiting the constabulary for police blotter news. He enjoyed reading tidbits of news, each with great implication. At first, not knowing any better, he published the little stories in a Walter Winchell styled column titled Around the Square. The column squandered valuable merit. He killed the column and began giving each story its own venue. Maybe three graphs and a headline. Whoah! The Ledger began to sparkle.
          In the Post-Watergate newsday it was expected of an editor to seek out corruption in government, treating elected officials as "the usual suspects." You know, be the newest Woodstein.  
          Artie attended all the hall meetings. Yawn.
          People came forth with zoning propsals and complaints.
          Radcliff over there is a decent guy, owns a dry-cleaning business. He drinks Olympia beer and can toss a decent round of darts. Westport there is a housewife who hosts coffee klatches at the Moosecall.
          He decided one night to give the Ledger a make-over. Subtle and unannounced. He would slip it to his readers on the sly. No claxtons of self-aggrandizement.
         


                                                                                       *


          Artie had to chuckle. Brother Ambrose and Sonya.
          It's time we met Brother Ambrose. Who knows? There might be a story.